


Caught

by writermouse



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Blood, Bondage, Dissociation, Gang Rape, Injury, Rape, Self-Blame, Torture, Trauma, Urination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-13 22:57:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19260859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writermouse/pseuds/writermouse
Summary: Korekiyo gets caught by the family of one of his victims, they exact revenge via rape and assault.





	Caught

I always knew this was a risk, of course. There was always the chance that I wouldn’t get away with it and I’d face consequences for my actions, be they extrajudicial or otherwise. As it happened, this was decidedly extrajudicial, though, depending on what happens here, the legal system may tacitly support it, though that also depends on if there’s sufficient evidence about my crimes as well… But this is needlessly cerebral a concern right now, I may want to analyze what’s happening in real time. 

I am currently tied to a chair, mostly with duct tape. My hands are behind my back and behind the chair, the tape is on top of my bandages, but tight. There’s tape around my torso as well, binding me to the chair itself. I can breathe fine, as long as I keep calm, which is proving a bit difficult. There’s tape just under my knees, going around the legs of the chair, and then more around my ankles, doing the same. There’s a strip of tape over my mouth. This is quite trapped, I can’t imagine being able to escape from this if my life depended on it, which it very well might. 

I didn’t make it out of town before someone found this body- a beautiful teenage girl, with some very dedicated male family members, it seems. The exaggerated masculinity associated with the role of family protector in a lot of cultures can lead to some troublingly violent behaviors, and that seems to be at work here. Someone saw her leave with me, and that’s all it takes for mob justice. In a courtroom, they’d need more evidence. Here, they just need to feel it’s right enough. So far, I haven’t been asked if I did it, I wonder if they will. They won’t trust my answer anyway. Will I tell the truth? Will it matter? What beauty will I witness here? As much as I’m sure this is going to hurt, it would be a lie to say I wasn’t interested. 

A kick to the side of the chair brings me back to more external focus and I look up to see that one of my captors has gotten a knife. It appears to be a kitchen knife, but the familiar context makes it no less worrying. It doesn’t look particularly sharp, but that’s more problematic than comforting. A dull knife is likely to hurt more, then again, it’s harder to do something lethal. But do I intend to survive this? Well, that’s an interesting thought. I suppose we’ll see. 

“You’re not gonna need these,” he says, and then there’s a ripping sound. He’s slicing through the pants of my uniform. That cannot be happening. I won’t be able to fix that. But it is happening anyway. I’m less here now, but Sister isn’t here either, she’s disappointed in me for getting caught. She won’t be here. Dissociating is the word I want, I believe. 

I wonder why they didn’t undress me before all the tape, if this was the plan? It would have been easier, but maybe there isn’t a plan. That would make sense. This is a mob, mobs don’t have plans. But wait, why does he want to remove my clothes in the first place? What does that have to do with anything?

His hands quickly answer my question, as he grasps the waistband of my undergarments and cuts them off as well, before roughly grabbing my penis. Rape, then. Well, that makes some sense. I do look feminine enough to inspire that sort of punitive response more generally, from people who would seek to punish such things, and they’re already at committing some sort of crime, so it’s an intuitive addition. That likely would have been more obvious if I could focus well. He doesn’t linger though, perhaps not yet. 

He slices up my clothes, cutting between the tape until they’re in rags. He’s not being particularly careful about it and the knife digs into my skin at a few places, but causes nothing more than light bleeding. I’m more concerned about the fabric, though it is obviously a lost cause. 

“Let’s see how you like it, you sick fuck!” 

I see, they think there was a sexual motivation for killing her. It’s a logical assumption, I suppose. Murder does have a somewhat sensual tone at times, and that one may have in particular. It isn’t true though. Should I tell him? Would it help to know that I didn’t rape her first? I suppose we’ll see what happens. 

His hands are on me again and it occurs to me I’m noticing all the wrong details. The calluses on his palms feel rough against my penis and, looking down, I note that his fingernails are very short, likely worn that way instead of clipped. He probably does some sort of manual labor, I check that observation with other details, glancing up at him more generally. His face is tanned, though not as dark as his hands, his eyes, in addition to the expected emotions, look tired, his overall frame is strong, but globally so, not as though it’s deliberate. Yes, definitely a laborer or some sort. 

In a different circumstance, he’s the sort of man I might try to get to take me home in a bar with promises to help him relax and- wait, no. I glance back down and confirm the feeling, I’m aroused. I’m getting hard. That isn’t what I want- I don’t want this- why is this happening? I know the answer, of course I do, it’s physical sensation, it’s the idea of something else, fear plays a role- if I’m experiencing any- I can’t tell- but that’s not the answer I know in my heart. I want this. I always want what happens to me. Nobody else is at fault. 

I can see the bulge in his jeans now, I wonder how this will go. If you intend to have sex with someone, taping them to a chair is not the easiest way to go about that, but, as with the cutting up my clothes bit, it clearly wasn’t planned in advance. He has a knife and tape is easy to cut, but will he? He doesn’t know that I won’t fight back- that I can’t, not like this. 

He moves closer, straddling over where I’m seated; he unzips his jeans. Next his cock is free and he rips the tape off my mouth. “Now, suck!” and he’s grabbing my hair to pull me closer. 

“No, don’t!” dies on my lips and I open my mouth instead. I don’t want him to pull my hair, I don’t want him to touch my hair. His hands aren’t clean, he’s not being careful. The way he thrusts deep into my mouth, almost down my throat makes my eyes water, but that’s not really the point right now. I need him to stop touching my hair. Maybe if I hurry? It’s time to be more active and I attempt to narrow my focus, I form a seal with my lips and actually do as instructed, though that didn’t seem to be what he meant, as he didn’t correct me before. He jumps slightly, maybe he didn’t expect cooperation? He stops moving and I take over, I bob my head up and down and drag my tongue along his length. 

Trying to stay attentive to my mouth has a few disadvantages, though I can feel my heart rate slowing, the panic ebbing away. He could use a shower, but that’s often true of men, I find. Likely so could I, though I’m not the one who’s decided to do this. The taste is saltier than necessary, but that’s alright, as long as he doesn’t feel the need to pull my hair and move me, everything will be okay. Or, rather, it won’t. We’ve already passed okay, my uniform is ruined, but this is the new benchmark for okay. I’ll protect my hair.

His orgasm surprises me, so I suppose I didn’t stay paying attention to that after all. I’m not sure where my thoughts must have gone, but the semen is thick in my throat and makes me gag. I never stopped crying, so there’s no increase in tears. It doesn’t change anything. He pulls away.

He looks disgusted, rape for power will do that sometimes, it seems. He has to confront that some part of this situation was pleasurable for him. As expected, his response is to escalate violence. It is easier than thinking, after all. He shoves me backwards, tipping the chair over. Unable to move, I fall heavily on top of my arms, the back of the chair wedged between them and my back. The back of my head strikes the floor once and I briefly see stars, but the pain is dull in comparison. 

“Wait here!” he demands, then storms out. I’m not sure why I’m being told to do something which I have no choice but to comply with, but that’s quite alright. It’s a good a time as any to take stock of the situation. The cuts from him undressing me, if we should call it that, have stopped bleeding, the dried blood feels a bit itchy, but that doesn’t require further attention. My uniform- that doesn’t bear thinking about. My hair is fine. I’ve a mild headache and my arms are throbbing. There’s an inconvenient pressure in my bladder, but that will certainly have to wait before it’s attended to. And, likely most importantly, Sister is still not speaking to me. 

Some time passes, I have no way to mark it, and I’m not in a state wherein my sense of time is reliable at all. Eventually some men come back, I’m not certain if they’re all the same as the ones I saw before or not, but that probably isn’t especially important. What is likely important is that their hands are on me and there are a lot of knives. 

I blink as it comes together, I’m being removed from the chair and they’re ensuring they have enough people to easily detain me, should I try to escape. Which I won’t, but I haven’t told them that. And they’d be foolish to believe me. The tape is cut and torn, they really aren’t coordinating this well, but eventually I’m pulled from the chair and pushed forward to my knees. I don’t have time to catch myself because my arms are being held as well, my face strikes against the floor with more force than I’d like and I taste blood. 

Too much is happening at once- I don’t have time to understand it. There are fingers in my mouth, mixing in the saliva and blood, there are more on my hair and they aren’t supposed to be there. I don’t want anyone to touch my hair. Now my mouth is empty, but I’m being penetrated, and my mouth doesn’t stay empty for long. Someone else is in front of me now, it’s all too much, I can’t do this, I don’t know what to do. I think I’m crying, but really, it’s anyone’s guess. 

“Hey!” a slap to my cheek brings the world back into focus, “I said suck!” 

That’s easy. I can do what I’m told. I tighten my lips around the cock forcing its way in and out of my mouth and having something to do makes everything else easier. He’s holding onto my hair, but not pulling it. I will behave and he won’t need to and that will make that okay. Someone else is holding onto my hips and sliding into me now and that hurts, I’m not ready, I wonder if this can possibly be comfortable to him, but it’s not that big of a deal. It only hurts. It’s alright to hurt. Other hands are on my back, there’s one on my penis as well, these are rough, and harsh. But that is alright as well. 

My focus fades in and out, but I try to concentrate on the blow job I’m giving. My lips are sore from the contact with the floor and keeping them tight doesn’t help, but the distraction from things that aren’t actionable is still welcome. I follow his lead, match the pace that his thrusts sets. Based on the tightening of the hands on my hips and spasmodic thrusts that follow, the man behind me has just orgasmed. He moves to the side and is quickly replaced. Semen is suddenly filling my mouth and I note that my attention must have wandered too far again, oh well, the evidence is there that I’m doing well enough. The fluid slips from between my lips and drops onto the floor. I have only a moment to catch my breath before someone else is taking his place as well. 

This man is bigger and I choke when he forces his way down my throat. I can’t breathe around him, there’s simply not space. He’s leaking already though, it shouldn’t take long. My hair. He’s pulling my hair. It’s tight at the roots and he’s yanking me back and forth. No, no, this isn’t right. I don’t want this. I can’t have this. No. But even if I could work up the power of speech to articulate these objections, no one would be able to so much as hear them. I’m not being given the choice to do anything now, he’s just moving me, I’m not here, not valuably. 

The next time awareness fades in, I’m lying on my stomach, my head is to one side, my hands are bound behind my back with zip ties, and my feet are bound together in the same fashion. Everything hurts. And, as hilarious as it is in its utter mundanity, my bladder is full. and that’s a relatively pressing concern. 

I hear people talking somewhere behind me, perhaps that’s why I came back to awareness at all. They’re still angry and coming to terms with the gang rape, it seems. It’s not gay, it doesn’t count, it’s barely sex, all of the things one may expect straight men to assure themselves of. Their anger is escalating- dangerous, but I don’t know what to do about it. 

A kick to my back obliterates the beginnings of a plan and I involuntarily curl forward, as if there’s anything I can do to protect myself. I’m rolled to the side by someone grabbing my shoulder and I lie on top of my hands, feeling the bruises spread underneath me. Looking up at my captors, I see hatred- it’s beautiful. A first stomp of heavy boots down on my face crushes my nose and a fount of blood starts flowing down either side. The second one is much lower, my low abdomen, and it takes a moment to place the sensation as warm fluid spreads over me and begins to puddle below me. Apparently the pressure was too much for my bladder to bear, and, in the agony, there is release. How distasteful. 

I don’t have long to care, spurred on by their disgust, I quickly lose consciousness under the barrage of blows.


End file.
